


in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.

by techieturnover



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Matelotage, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, more tags added as i add more stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23284873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techieturnover/pseuds/techieturnover
Summary: A series of drabbles and shorts based on Tumblr Prompts
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 19
Kudos: 50





	1. "We can leave, you know."

**Author's Note:**

> A collection of tumblr prompts (mostly flintham because I know who I am, but Miranda also makes appearances because i LOVE HER.) Most of these are standalones and can be read separately, if they aren't I'll note it.

Thomas walks into the dining hall to find James already sitting in a corner, a plate perched on his knees. Thomas knows why he avoids sitting at the long table with the other men, but he still feels the frustration flit across his face. He takes enough food to maintain the pretense of eating and settles next to James, in the chair conspicuously already beside him. James has been with him here a month now, and Thomas feels with trepidation the beginnings of a routine.

“We can leave, you know.” 

He hears his own voice, light but serious. He’s been wanting to talk to James about this since his arrival, since their arms first closed around each other in the field. He’s been waiting for the right moment. When James turns to look at him, though, it’s clear that this was not it. James doesn’t say anything for a long while, just stares at Thomas with an expression blank and so unlike the James Mcgraw that Thomas remembers he feels thrown off balance. 

It’s a bastardization of the way James used to communicate so clearly with just a look. There is an entirely new set of thoughts being said but Thomas has been reluctant to learn this new language, always hoping there will be no need. He’s starting to realize he still holds out too much hope for the goodness of the world.

“I’m sorry, Thomas.” 

More than the rebuke of freedom, more than the defeat in James’ voice, Thomas hates that he’s been the one to put it there. After ten years of longing for James to be with him, this is how they are. Two pieces of a puzzle too overused to fit together properly. 

“Do you want to stay here? Imprisoned?” He can’t stop the words from coming out. He’s been complacent for too long and now that James is here - now that he can breath again - he can’t wait to be free of this godforsaken place.

“I need to rest for a while. I just want to rest. To not be in danger, to not have you be in danger. Whatever peace is to be found here, I want to savor it for a moment.”

It hurts. Thomas tries not to let it, but it does hurt. That James has been so tested by the last ten years that he would accept a safe incarceration over the chance of freedom. Over the chance to be as much of themselves as is left without an overseer’s whip looming. 

“Can you accept that?” The fear in James’ voice makes Thomas want to say yes. He wants to say _yes, we can stay, and you can rest, and it will be alright._ But he knows the end of that sentence would be _and I will go mad, truly mad like they said I was in Bethlem, watching you be enslaved and beaten and worked like a goddamn farm animal._

He cannot - will not - accept that. Not with what the alternative offers. He makes the decision then, and feels more like the man he was back in London than he thought was possible, draws strength from it. 

“No.”

If James has been strong for the last ten years, if he’s born horrors that Thomas can only imagine in the name of Thomas’ memory, then, he decides, he’s going to be the one to carry James’ memory, now. To be strong in the name of the man he loves. 

“I’m not letting you give up.” James looks like he’s about to argue but Thomas cuts him off, shifting in the chair and leaning closer. “I will not let you give up now that we’ve found each other again. I’ve been here for years. I know what this place does to men. How it makes them complacent and timid. I have seen what the fear of the unknown does. How you start to wonder what offence will be the next one you’ll be punished for. There is no rest for us here, love. No rest, and no chance of any kind of life worth living.”

James closes his eyes, a look of anguish washing over his features so profound that Thomas almost echoes it, in some form of attempted pain sharing. James slumps, stares down at the plate in his hands and makes a sound like defeat. Thomas thinks he’s lost. 

Another breath, and Thomas is going to say something, anything, to convince James to come with him. But before he can open his mouth James shifts again, and Thomas swears he sees someone else, someone who is not wholly James McGraw, emerge. He straightens, and the look in his eye when he meets Thomas’ sends a shiver of both delight and awe down his spine.

“Where do we start?”


	2. Matelotage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time I made myself sad thinking about the likelihood that James would officiate gay pirate weddings while mourning Thomas? Now you can be sad too!

“Officially then, you two are now stuck with each other.” 

James Flint watches as the two men in front of him smile wide. Froom, the taller one who always looks to James like he’s just come out from a chimney, grabs his newly announced husband and kisses him with feral excitement, hauling Crisp almost clean off his feet. Not to be outdone, Crisp jumps up and wraps his legs around Froom’s waist, sending the two toppling into their friends behind them. 

He can’t help but laugh as the other men haul the two around. It eases something in him to see their joy echoed among the crew - an uncoiling of the twist in his gut still relatively new, but already so achingly familiar. It never stays uncoiled for long.

It’s been a year. Not exactly, not to the day, James is thankful he’ll never know the exact day. But more or less a year has passed since Thomas hung himself in Bethlem.

The spring tightens again and James feels as if he is going to suffocate if he doesn’t get away from the jubilant crew soon. As the other men take their turns congratulating the two with rowdy slaps and good natured punches he excuses himself, sneaks off to the opposite end of the ship where it’s quieter. 

There still isn’t enough air to breathe around his grief, but at least he’s far enough away that the men won’t see his tears, or hear the gasps he’s unsuccessful in denying. He grips the edge of the ship. Focuses on the grain of it, the feeling of the smooth wood broken by the occasional rough snag of an old battle scar. Schools his features back into the mask he’s christened Captain Flint. He just has to survive until nightfall, and he’ll be able to grieve in his cabin, alone. 

Briefly he wishes they were closer to Nassau, that he could escape inland, to Miranda. Grief shared, he thinks, but he suspects she’s getting tired of wiping away his tears by now. Wiping away both of their tears.

An entire year they should have had together is gone. So many of the days the three of them had hoped to share now wasted in mourning, and even more squandered with thoughts of revenge. Hatred, murder. Things Thomas couldn’t have condoned if he were still alive. 

Had it only been that long, since he had fantasized about sharing the freedom of this place with Thomas? Of sharing something like the celebration across the ship with him? It seemed so much longer than that since James had believed a place might exist that they could live as they wanted. That the world might be that kind.

Now, it's all for naught. It doesn't matter what the crew, or Nassau, might think if they were to learn his preferences extend beyond women. The thought of taking a lover other than Thomas makes him feel ill. Touching, kissing someone else would only be a stark reminder of what he longs for, and what he's lost.

James can still remember with crystal clarity what kissing Thomas had felt like. What loving someone that steadfast in his beliefs had cemented in him. It doesn't feel like there's room in him for anything else. 

“Captain?” 

Drawn from his sorrow, James looks over to where Hal Gates is standing and looking him over with a wary expression. Not as good at hiding himself as he thought, then. 

“Have you got a problem with it? Those two?” 

Christ. Can he trust Gates with the truth, this early? Can he trust himself, to say Thomas’ name out loud without losing his composure? 

The closing of his throat at the mere thought is his answer. The sob that wants to break out enough of a warning. He swallows the sound, looking at the deck instead of at his quartermaster. 

“No, Hal. They’re fine.” A shout from the crowd draws his attention and he sees someone holding up a fiddle. “Glad they’ve finally made it official. They’ve only been mooning after one another for what, six months?”

“Longer than that. Froom was the reason Crisp came aboard at all. Kindred spirits, those two. Although trouble in every way. And I don’t suspect either of them will be letting up on the whores just because of a little matrimony.” James laughs.

“We’ll wish them the best of luck then, won’t we?” 

“Something’s bothering you about it.” And that’s the thing about Hal, James is learning. He’s always direct where it counts.

“It’s nothing the crew needs to worry about. I don’t hold any ill will towards men who find happiness with each other.” 

Something in the way Gates regards him makes him think - maybe - he’s played his hand too openly. But his quartermaster just claps a hand on his shoulder. It lingers, though, maybe a touch too long and his fingers squeeze in a way that feels almost paternal. 

_God,_ there’s another wound still too fresh to pick at. 

“Don’t look too grumpy about it or they’re likely to come over here and antagonize you.” 

Luckily, Hal leaves it at that and walks away. James looks back towards the men, the lovers now thoroughly surrounded with every sign that the crew will be partaking in a rowdy celebration long into the night. 

James watches them for a while. He imagines what Thomas would have done if he’d had the chance to witness it. He thinks, with something approaching comfort, that Thomas would have loved it. 

\---

_For there’s a kind of world remaining still;  
Though you, which did inanimate and fill  
The world, be gone, yet in this last long night  
Your ghost doth walk, that is, a glimmering light,  
A faint weak love of virtue and of good._

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote at the end is from the poem "An Anatomy of the World: The First Anniversary" by John Donne. YAY SADNESS!


	3. "You look like you need a hug. Come here."  modern au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a very short modern au drabble, which may or may not become its own verse, where James is a very angry and tired Queer Studies professor. and needs a hug.

The pen hits the desk with enough force to bounce off, falling to the floor. James stares at it, silently willing it to disappear so he has a reason not to finish grading the papers piled on his desk. 

“Fuck!”

The exclamation is the final straw for the cat. It jumps off his lap, claws digging in past his jeans and into skin before it retreats. James bites back another curse, pressing his lips together against the pained sound that wants to escape. He runs a hand over the sore spot on his leg, indulges himself in another moody sigh and retrieves the pen, sitting down and refocusing on the paper in front of him. It’s not even the students, if he’s honest with himself, but the damned politics involved in trying to teach a comprehensive queer studies class at a public university.

A hand reaches around James to pluck the pen out of his fingers before pulling him into a warm embrace. A warm cheek rubs against his jaw and he relaxes immediately - instinct at this point when Thomas’ scent envelops him. The cinnamon hand soap Thomas favors. Something bright that he used to know another name for, but now just means Thomas.

There’s a soft hum as Thomas nuzzles him again. “You’re all prickly.” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs back, even though he knows Thomas doesn’t mind. A thought confirmed when Thomas presses a soft kiss to the corner of his jaw. James tilts his head a bit, allowing further access and the tension of grading papers leaves completely. It can’t be comfortable, Thomas stooped over as he is, but they stay like that for a bit, James leaning against the back of his chair and Thomas resting his weight on James’ shoulders. 

“Just about done for the night? Miranda and I were going to watch a movie.” Thomas’ voice is still soft, warm breath ghosting over his ear and James brings a hand up to squeeze the arm holding him. It always hits him out of nowhere, how much he loves this man. It shouldn’t surprise him so much; not after they’ve been together this long. It still does. He turns his head to catch Thomas’ lips.

“Give me another few minutes to finish this one.” 

“I’ll get the popcorn started.” 

Thomas pulls away, one hand trailing along James’ neck and carding softly through his hair before turning to leave. Before he’s out the doorway James calls out. 

“Thank you.”

Thomas smiles. “You looked like you needed it.”

**Author's Note:**

> for more feelings, follow me on im-the-punk-who.tumblr.com. You know you want to and you will probably only occasionally regret it


End file.
